Catching Up is Hard to Do
by Angel Blackwood
Summary: Agent Dales and Mulder have a chat about life, the X-Files and a certain redhead. Post-ep for Agua Mala. Sentimental note: This was my debut fic back in March 1999. I still like it. Disclaimer: Not mine.


It's been a long night in Goodland, Florida and I've been tracking the storm since it started. Yes, Hurricane Leroy has spat upon us and moved out to sea, leaving in its wake "minor destruction," which basically means there will be no federal funds for clean up.

Shit.

Most of the families in this neck of the woods have a hard enough time just making their monthly payments, let alone having to foot the bill for repairs because they can't afford the insurance rates. Sometimes the government I swore to protect as a federal agent leaves me wondering at its incredible indifference. I'll be sure to check on Mrs. Archer later this morning just to make sure she's okay. Never let it be said that Arthur Dales is an unconcerned son-of-a-bitch: a drunken son-of-a-bitch maybe, but never unconcerned.

With the storm past, dawn breaks oddly clear and flamingo pink over the trailer park. It's hotter than ever. Water service has been restored, but there's still no phone or electricity. I'd just about given up on Mulder and Scully when they appear at my door around ten. They're clearly spent and my casual offer of a brief respite before going out again is gratefully accepted.

They've been to the hospital where Mulder checked out okay, despite some nasty looking injuries on his neck. They tell me about their exploits of the previous evening. I tell Mulder how amazing I think his partner is. He's rather non-committal in his response, though I suspect he'd be more forthcoming if we were alone. Just a hunch.

Mulder sits opposite me, while Scully remains slightly back. She's wearing a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt that I can't help but wish she'd been wearing when she was sopping wet. In the light of a dry day, I see her clearly for the first time. Her incredible blue eyes are offset by hair the color of burnished copper. Her features are finely chiseled, a reflection of her petite build. She is, in fact, quite a beautiful woman. When I point that out to her, she flashes me a shy smile. She suddenly seems younger, more vulnerable. We chat for a bit about her work with the Bureau.

She's hedging with me, especially about her history with Mulder, who sits with a cryptic look on his face. It's clear they're comfortable with one another, yet oddly silent. Still, there is no mistaking the genuine concern in her eyes as she watches him. The air whirrs softly with the sound of a cel phone. Scully retrieves the unit from her jacket pocket.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," she says crisply, disconnecting. She turns to Mulder. "They found the stolen car from the complex and a possible suspect for the lootings at The Breakers." He nods wordlessly and she walks towards the door.

"Scully-" he calls and she half-turns to face us at the entry. He rises, crossing the room in a few, quick strides. His body leans towards hers and his head dips down, his voice close to her ear. I strain to hear their words, but catch only snippets:

"Scully, I'll go..."

"Mulder, rest..."

"We need a flight..."

"My feet hurt."

Their voices mingle softly, like harmonic notes in a sweet chord, the volume on soft; the tone familiar, annoyed, affectionate. She looks up at him, tilts her head and dismisses him with a wave.

"Stay, Mulder. You and Mr. Dales can do some catching up." Like I'd have anything of interest to tell the very intense Agent Mulder. Still, I've had my share of unusual and bizarre. I was a pretty sharp field agent once. Still fancy myself to be a good judge of character and a helluva people watcher.

With that, I feel my ind go into Slow Inspection Mode, an old habit of Bureau investigative work that never quite leaves you, no matter how long you're out of the field. My attention is trained on Mulder, who remains standing in the doorway as Scully leaves. His eyes follow her until she is out the driveway and out of the complex. Funny thing is, I don't think he's even aware that he's doing it.

His averted face gives me a chance to study him. He's still lean, in good shape. Well, that's to be expected for a G-Man, though I suspect Mulder is just a little vain about his appearance. He looks older than I remember him, and tired. He's been through a lot these last two days, but I sense the fatigue runs deep in his bones. Weariness cloaks his shoulders and the thought comes to me that he is too young to seem this burdened.

He's a good-looking man. No problems landing a Saturday night date, I imagine, but I can see a few gray hairs at his temple and lines beginning to etch themselves into his face: a face that has probably seen more than its fair share of evil in the world, supernatural or not. Hell, Fox Mulder has probably seen things most people can't even begin to imagine. Trust me, I can relate.

He returns to sit with me by the window. We stare out into a ridiculously glorious Florida day while the devastation of the hurricane lies about the yard. It was a doozy all right. Debris is everywhere, but the birds are singing. Gotta love it.

I'm playing the good host and offer him a drink, but he shakes his head. Not much else in my pantry, so I end up making coffee on a propane sterno burner I keep handy because the electricity goes out with some regularity 'round here, what with the storms and all. We sit quietly for awhile and I settle back into my chair, just watching.

Mulder is not the brash, young agent I remember coming to my door that morning in DC, ten years ago, seeking information about a very, very old file - an X-File. Who'd have thought anyone would still be interested in those bizarre cases? Hell, I didn't even know what I was getting into when it all started. Yet here we are, a long time later, my heir apparent now sitting across from me.

We converse. Or rather, I talk and Mulder listens. He's a good listener: attentive and concerned. I regale him with an amusing X-File - the one with the psychotropic flowers and the lovesick hippie who was spurned by his ladylove for a lawyer in a three-piece-suit. Ah, the 60's. Not to be outdone, Mulder relates to me one of the cases he and Scully have pursued of late. We chuckle over Holman Hardt, the lovelorn weatherman whose unfulfilled romantic spirit caused a good deal of trouble for one small Kansas town. I ask some questions to clarify a few things and he seems surprised, but pleased, at my interest. I don't suppose Mulder has very many people who will take him at face value without a slight roll of the eyes. The skeptics of the world, I have found, are a boring lot and often, a cruel one.

I ask about his father. His expression saddens and I learn that Bill Mulder was murdered a few years back. His killer remains at large, although Mulder has a pretty good idea about who did it. I extend my condolences. He turns implacable eyes on me and I swear I catch a glimpse of a wracked soul there. It is not a happy subject and seems to set him off on a more serious train of thought.

Maybe he just needed the opening, but he's suddenly telling me about a grand plan he and Scully have been investigating from the outset of their partnership; a plan that has claimed not only the life of Mulder's father, but Scully's sister as well. He's dead serious and I listen carefully. It's a strange "adventure." Well, maybe 'adventure' isn't exactly the right word to use. More like scared-shitless chaos, if you ask me. Aliens, clones and hybrids? You don't say. Sounds a little funky, but I'll bite. A government conspiracy, you say? Well, that's no surprise. They've been around a lot longer than you and me, kid, trust me on that one. Funny how every generation thinks they've invented sin and sex.

He's pensive now, but I can tell his guard is down by the way he leans forward, hands clasped in front, elbows on his thighs. I'm glad to see that he trusts me, if only a little. There's still a question on my mind and I'd like to steer this conversation to another place. My guess is, so would he.

"So...Mulder, what happened?" I query as I raise my left hand between us, fingers waggling, indicating with a nod to my own ringless fingers. He shoots me a look that says, "Don't go there," but I'm a royal pain-in-the-ass and I know it. "Last time we met, you were definitely married. What gives?" My tone is light, non-committal, like I really don't care if he tells me anything. He seems to accept my feigned indifference sips his coffee.

"God, that's bad," he mutters. Looking around the room he sits back in his seat and adds, "Do your own interior decorating, too?" Shit, I've had suspects attempt misdirection better that. I just shake my head and wait for my answer. It'll come, eventually - at least with any ordinary Joe, especially if Joe really wants to talk. Fox Mulder is no ordinary Joe. Still, I wait. Finally, he shrugs and murmurs, "Let's just say we had our differences."

I have to give him credit for being so gentlemanly because remembering it clearly brings up unspoken bitterness. His jaw tightens and he shifts uneasily in the chair. Wrong tactic. Try again. I ask about Scully. How long they've been together, how they got partnered. The tension in his shoulders eases. He tells me she was sent to spy on him from the Powers That Be, to keep an eye on him and make him look the fool. That figures. I know how those power-hungry bastards at the Bureau love to fuck with your head just to let you know that they're the ones in charge. Funny thing, though, he says it almost fondly.

He goes on, then, about how many times she's saved his sorry ass and put up with his general bullshit. Fox Mulder is not an easy man to keep in check. His reputation is well known, even to me, from this vantage point. His early career had skyrocketed. Mulder, Golden Boy of the VCU, Profiler extrodinnaire. And then - something happened. What exactly or when I'm not sure, but he definitely pissed off somebody pretty high up. It looked like Fox Mulder was going to burn out or get himself booted out of the FBI real quick, until a certain senator with a political agenda took him under his wing. Mulder's no sap. In fact, he's a damned bright guy. He knew he was being played, but it didn't matter, really, as long as it kept him in the game. That's when I met him - a combination of youthful ambition and naivete, tinged with cynicism and a fascination with the bizarre. Except to Mulder, it wasn't so bizarre.

I tell him, then, about Rosalie, my ex. Now there was a looker. Long, leggy and blonde with a body that wouldn't quit. My secretary at the Bureau. Oh, I know it's cliché, but that's the only way women were allowed to serve back then. Oh yeah, she was hot. She did a number on me and when she finally left with some naval officer at the DOD, I wasn't surprised. Just pissed. Still, I think about her now and again. I hear she and Admiral Stab-me-in-the-Back are very happily retired in Norfolk with grandkids and everything. Like I said before, my luck stinks. Maybe if I had paid attention to her a little more than to those damn files. Right. I look back at Mulder and suddenly I understand just how isolated he is. And lonely.

Which brings me back to Mulder and Scully. Just what is it with them? They're not lovers. I can usually read that right away. But there's something I can't quite put my finger on. They trust one another and they make a hell of a team. I meant it when I said I'd have stayed on with the Bureau if I'd had a partner like Scully. Smart, capable, resourceful, reliable - all necessary ingredients in a successful partnership.

And there's no denying she's certainly easy on the eyes. Pretty, petite, great figure and a redhead, to boot. I may be getting old, but I'm not dead. Now why didn't they allow female agents when I was in the Bureau? Damn, my luck stinks. Yep, Mulder has a pretty sweet deal for a partner, although something tells me that all that sweetness could turn deadly real fast.

"So, what's with you and Scully?" I ask. I know I'm sticking my nose where it doesn't belong but, hey, that's never stopped me before.

"What do you mean?" he queries. So innocent.

"Look, Mulder," I continue, "I'm no fool. Scully's terrific." He smiles, sort of. I go on, leaning towards him, "And I'm not just talking professionally. Women like that don't come along every day and, in case you hadn't noticed; well, let's just say that she definitely notices _you_." That gets him, oh yeah. The cool exterior slips just a bit. He says nothing, but I can almost hear the images clicking in that eidetic mind of his, like he's cross-referencing for proof or something. His puzzlement is clear. I slowly nod.

"Trust me. She notices you, you're either blind or too stupid to do something about it. And please don't tell me she's just your partner. It insults my intelligence." I sit back in my chair and let the words just hang. He runs his hand through his hair.

"I've tried," he finally admits softly. So, they've been at the threshold of those earthly desires. Something happened or didn't. How could that be? Something was wrong. Something was getting in the way. The signals I *was* seeing were crystal clear - the looks, the touches, the subtle intimacies of shared lives.

"How hard, Mulder? How hard did you try?" He glances at me with a troubled eye like he's been wondering the same thing himself.

"Look," I begin. "I may be a long time out of the loop, but I know something about life and the X-Files. Been there. Done that. And I can tell you from experience that nothing, nothing is more important than a good woman at your side."

"I have that," he offers.

"Is she aware that you think so?"

He looks at me passively for awhile, then shifts his gaze away. A long sigh escapes him, although his lips remain pursed. He sits like that for a minute, the fingers of one hand absentmindedly plucking on his lower lip. A succession of emotions flicker across his eyes as that photographic mind scans his memories in Technicolor. I see the full assortment, a catalog of their time together, played across his hazel eyes like some strange cinéma vérité.

When he turns his eyes back to mine, I can tell he's made a decision because his gaze is focused. I watch as the barest glimmer of a smile curves the edges of his mouth and his gaze softens. That's when I know. That's when I understand "how things are" between Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. No, they're not lovers, yet. But he would like them to be. Oh yeah, he's got it bad. And you know what? I'm goddamned jealous.

END


End file.
